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I fly into Saskatoon from Calgary, across a vast, rumpled patchwork quilt of beige and teal, dotted with the odd toy farmhouse, marooned in a vast grass ocean.
I’ve never been to Canada and Saskatchewan is far from the obvious place to start. Even most Canadians know it for just two things: farming and being flat. Just as I think the flat will never end, or we’ll fall off the end of it, the city rises suddenly from the prairie, grid-patterned evidence of humanity with a tiny cluster of shiny high-rises straddling the South Saskatchewan River.
Checking into the Sheraton, it’s hard to believe this was once a wild west town, but to understand the history of Saskatchewan you need to go further back. Up-river is the First Nations site of Wanuskewin, a heritage park in a grassy valley that’s been populated since mammoth stomped the earth 6,000 years ago.
Proving that not everywhere here is flat, it’s famous for its bison jumps, where tribes of Northern Plains Indians drove herds of the beasts over a cliff to their death. A brutal way to die, but nothing went to waste, I’m told as I watch an energetic dance from a group of colourfully-dressed First Nations. The skin and fur was used for tipis; the ribs made into sleighs; the sinew became taut bow strings and the tail was used to swat flies. But when white men arrived, living on the plains changed forever.
In the 1890s the government painted a glowing picture of the rich lands of Saskatchewan, naming it the ‘Last Best West’ and fuelling an immigration drive which grew the population from 91,000 to 492,000 in 10 years.
Saskatoon’s Western Development Museum recreates the boom time of 1910, when people from across Europe arrived daily to receive the co-ordinates of a square of land which was to become their homestead. Though you can still sense the enourmous opportunity, you can also appreciate the bravery of these pioneers, starting from scratch thousands of miles from home in the lonely prairielands
I find out that the boom was followed by a bust and here in Saskatchewan the 1930s depression catastrophically coincided with a 10-year drought which reduced the bountiful land to a virtual desert. Weeds and giant thistles whistled across the plains, replacing crops which were unable to seed in the barren earth. Harsh winds drove drifts of dust into houses, covering people’s belongings in a filthy film – hence the term ‘dirty 30s’. The bread basket became the dust bowl.
Two thirds of the population were declared destitute but those who stayed have descendants still working the land today, and the museum concludes with a snapshot of this world. Nature is helped by 500-horsepower combine harvesters, 90-feet wide GPS precision seed drills and environmentally-controlled barns.
Hitting the road, I get an insight into this Saskatchewan from my host and a book I discover in a petrol station called You Know You’re From Saskatchewan When…For instance, ‘You know you’re from Saskatchewan when your bumper sticker reads ‘My other vehicle is a John Deere’. This, I learn from my guide Janelle, is a brand of tractor which she can recognise a mile off across the endless haze of wheat.
Nestled in a valley, a series of rustic guest rooms are housed in round-roofed red shacks that look out over the hills and Lake Diefenbaker. Owner George Gaber is a German Marlborough Man, permanently dressed in denim and leather and with a chiseled Disney hero jaw shaded under his cowboy hat.
There is no wifi, TV or other modern trappings at his ranch. Meals – hearty home-cooked fare like chili – are eaten at long communal tables and the entertainment is riding, swimming, playing with the dogs and a tin shack saloon with tractor seat bar stools. I could stay forever. After getting us kitted out in leather chaps and wide-brimmed hats, George leads a group of us out on horseback. We ride Western-style, of course, fancying ourselves true cowgirls and boys as we stand on a promontory surveying George’s rolling and tranquil land.
This is a feature from Issue 2 of Charitable Traveller. Click to read more from this issue.
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